Heart to Heart
by CitronPresse
Summary: Mark and Cristina talk right after episode 4.15. Snarky, angry Cristina POV, but some optimism in the end. Genre should probably be Angst/Humor/Friendship/sort of Romance! Characters: Cristina, Mark; Pairing: Mark/Cristina. Give it a shot!


A/N: something I started playing with after episode 4.15. Sort of finding may way around this pairing right now . . . Reviews would be appreciated; including concrit if you want to.

Thanks to my beta.

* * *

"Mind if I join you, Yang?"

You look up at Mark Sloan. Your looks have been withering everyone all day and he should be an easy target. He's too used to women falling at his feet and into his bed and the most basic of withering looks ought to make him recoil. Except he doesn't. He just stands there and raises his eyebrows at you hopefully and indicates the space on the floor next to you.

"Yes," you say. "Go away." You try to think of something cutting to say to him. Wasn't there something about him being a whore? You have no idea. You have your own problems. And your inventiveness for thinking up snarling, hurtful remarks has started to fail you as exhaustion has crept in during the course of a long, boring, heart-rending day. So you ramp up the contemptuousness of your look and stare him out.

But he just smiles and sits down on the floor next to you and leans back against the wall.

He sighs. "I could use a friend," he says, unaccountably, because you're not his friend and that's not going to change today. "You kind of look like you could too."

"This is _my_ hallway," you say. It's a stupid remark but it's how you feel. It _is_ your hallway. You've been sitting here for hours now. "Why don't you go and find Torres and do something dirty with her?" you ask him.

"I said I could use a friend," he says. "Not that I wanted a friend to use me." He pauses and laughs a little sadly. "Anyway, she just did that, and she loses interest in talking after she's had a screaming orgasm." Then he looks at you. "I wanted to turn over a new leaf," he says. "I screwed it up in less than 24 hours."

You give him the look again and, when it still has no effect, you sigh with exasperation. "Perhaps my sucky life has given me aphasia. But just before I refer myself to Neuro, I'm giving it one more try. Not 'sit down and talk girl with me,' because I don't give a damn; but 'go away.' Is that any clearer? Would 'fuck off' work better for you?" You give him a nasty, sarcastic glare.

All he does is smile back at you, quite genuinely. What the hell is his problem?

"I want to . . . hang out with someone who doesn't have any opinions about me," he says. "I'm craving indifference. You seem like about the most indifferent person I've ever met."

Something about this little outpouring interests you. It sounds vaguely like something you might say. You didn't know he had it in him. But you still don't like him and you still want him to go away.

"I'm not indifferent," you snap. "I'm embittered. I'm embittered and jaded and pissed off at the world. I wanted to be unstoppable. I wanted to burn the place up. I _did_ burn. And then I fizzled out and it was all for nothing. I was underestimated and overlooked and used. And now I don't have any fire left and I can't even bring myself to care."

You weren't really talking to him. You were just spewing out your pain and along the way more or less forgotten he's still there, until you feel his hand gently rest on your shoulder and you realize there are angry tears in your eyes.

He doesn't say anything, but he leaves his hand where it is. You flinch by reflex at his touch, but then you realize that it's not as horrible as your defenses want you to believe . . . you even like the feel of it, and so you sit still and breathe and allow yourself to be somewhat comforted by his unexpectedly pleasant warmth.

"Told ya," he says softly, breaking the silence and the mood, so you round on him and dislodge his hand.

"You told me what?" you demand.

"That you looked like you could use a friend." He shrugs.

Now he's annoying you again. Still, he's here and you didn't mind the feel of his hand on your shoulder. Even if he does smell faintly of Callie, you suppose he'd be up for screwing you. That's what he does, right? It's his reason for being, apart from doing frivolous surgeries. And loveless fucking could be cathartic. You could fantasize about Burke walking in on you; that ought to make for a screaming orgasm even if McSteamy's attentions can't accomplish it unassisted.

"On call room?" you ask him, assuming he'll just say yes. But he looks at you. He gives you the sort of look you'd associate with George, all big-eyed and disappointed and helpless, and he shakes his head and looks down at the floor.

"What was that you said about being underestimated and used?" he asks quietly and he looks into your eyes. "No, thank you," he says and begins to stand up and you realize that you've been staring at him for the past few seconds with your mouth open. When he's on his feet, he gives you another George look. "I knew you were heartless, Dr. Yang," he says. "But before today, I thought it was kind of endearing. I guess I was wrong." He shakes his head again and starts to walk away. But you leap to your feet and challenge him.

"Hey!" You almost yell and he stops and turns around to look at you. And now he doesn't look like George. He looks like someone serious and dignified and wounded; he looks like you feel. "I am not heartless," you say through clenched teeth. "I gave everything. I gave everything to a man who exploited me and compromised me and tried to put me in a box and, when I'd given in, when I'd capitulated and shaved off my fucking eyebrows, abandoned me." You inhale loudly. "So, I get to be pissed. I get to not care. I get to underestimate you and whoever else I damn well please!" You're bristling now and if he were any closer, you think you'd probably hit him.

"Me too," he says softly.

"You too, _what_?" you ask harshly. You don't have time for male self-pity.

"I gave everything," he says. "Even though she doesn't give a fuck and my best friend thinks I don't know what it's like to wait around for an unavailable woman." He sighs and rubs his hand over his face. "I guess I have to forgive him that," he says. "Considering the woman was his wife."

"You didn't shave off your eyebrows!" you snap stupidly, just for the sake of saying something caustic.

He laughs slightly and he's walking towards you and now he's right there and you can feel the warmth radiating from his body again. "Addison shaved off my pubes once," he says in a low, confidential voice.

Your face wrinkles into a disgusted look. "I don't want to know about your genitals," you say.

He gives you an overly confident smirk. "You wanted to play with them less than five minutes ago," he says.

"I wanted you to fuck me. I didn't want to play with anything," you say, affronted, although part of you is laughing a little.

"Shut up!" he says, smiling, and suddenly he's taken you in his arms and enfolded you and his lips are pressed against yours and his tongue's in your mouth, doing soft, warm things that make you shiver with pleasure. Then just as suddenly, you're two separate people again and he's standing there looking at you, his arms folded, and the smirk's back.

You swallow. "On call room?" you ask in a small, tentative voice.

"No," he says and raises his eyebrows at you teasingly. He reaches into his pocket and gets out his cell phone. "What's your number?" he asks as he presses the relevant keys.

"My number?" you ask. The man confounds you and somehow you like it.

"So I can call you the morning after. If I ever decide to give into your . . . advances, that is," he says and grins.

"You're not going to screw me now?" you ask.

"No," he says firmly. "What's your number?'

And so you tell him, in a dazed monotone, because you don't quite know what's going on. All you know is that, from the moment he kissed you until this moment, you'd forgotten all about Burke and that felt good.

He closes his phone, winks at you, and walks away down the hallway. And you have no idea what just happened, except the dark place seems slightly further away and "indifferent" is no longer the proper description for how you feel about Mark Sloan.


End file.
